You Were
by Vivid Butterfly
Summary: Little boys dream of growing up to be like their fathers, piloting spaceships and saving the world. Adopted princesses dream of their birth mothers.


Yeah, so... I have no idea, really... I should apologize if my grammar is bad, I should get someone to fix it for me, but I have to go work on my breaststroke turns for swimming.

You Were.

At times when you slept, when you dreamt, you could see her face and you wondered why you knew it. And above all else you wondered who she was.

When you were five you were given a name. Padmè. You rolled it over in your mind a few times; examined it from every possibly angle. Bisected it and dissected it until it was barely anything more than fractions of fractions of syllables. You cut it thinner than any fabric, cut it thinner than any paper, cut it thinner than anything, ever.

You tested it on your tongue; found it so amiable and alarming, so enigmatic and eloquent, so deviant and definitive that you actually had to stop yourself from saying the name in front of your mother. You were afraid she would be jealous.

Though say it you did. You used to hide under the covers at night with the glow of your dead and dying computer and search the holonet for anything on her. Your computer came up with countless holosites. Well, not really countless, you counted every single one, let the numbers roll off of your tongue and stick in your mind, seven thousand three hundred and forty six. But you had been too scared to open any one of them.

You would say her name under your breath, over and over again wondering if somehow she could hear you and give you strength to click on the link.

By eight you were given a name. Padmè, Padmè Naberrie.

It was so intoxicating and inflexible, so stimulating, and sobering so intimidating and inspiring that you had to hold in your words; you had to watch your tongue so that the name would not slip past your lips and be tarnished by the ears of the unworthy.

You used to smile and say it under your breath, at night you would search, but too scared to open the holosite, you would close your eyes and imagine everything on it.

Every night before drifted to sleep you would taste the name on your tongue. This was your mantra. This was your hymn, sacred and beautiful, and only for the two of you, because you were sure she could hear you.

When you were eight you were still too scared to open any of the four thousand five hundred and fourteen sites that mentioned her.

By eleven you were given a name. Padmè, Padmè Naberrie, Padmè Naberrie Amidala.

It was so obstinate and obliging, so emblematic and elementary, so regal and reverential that you had to write it out, had to express it in any way you could. You searched every other night, and with you wide brown brown doe-like eyes you would glance over every one of the one thousand two hundred and eighty three websites.

When you were twelve, you found a crumpled up picture on your desk, and you had to assume that your mother left it for you. It was of the woman. It was of Padmè Naberrie Amidala.

She was as beautiful as you remembered from your memories that had to be fake, beautiful but sad. Flowers twisted into her dark hair, a dress of the colors that angels should have worn, and a small necklace wrapped in her hands.

Her stomach was still bulging under the dress, evidence of her illicit affair. You wiped the tears away that had slid on your cheeks and your unsteady fingers flipped the photo over to see the back, which had printed on the back in tiny professional computer font that all photos had when downloaded and printed off of the news sites, it read her name her wonderful beautiful awe-inspiring name and the date of her death.

It had been your birthday.

By thirteen, you learned she had once been elected queen. Your eyes had widened in a bit of unwarranted shock and you knew now that you were a Princess in more than one way now.

You knew that many children fantasized about being adopted and really being royalty. You had been adopted into royalty, and now you knew that the woman who birthed you was more than just an Alderaanian native who was not ready for a child.

Every night you would log onto your computer and search the holonet. Your eyes would sometimes glaze over as you looked over the three hundred and seventy nine links, still too scared to click on any.

By fifteen you had learned she was born and raised and buried on Naboo.

With shaky fingers you typed in the name you had typed in so many times before, the name you had written so many times before, the name you had whispered so many times before, and clicked enter.

What you saw scared you.

You shut your computer off, eyes watering with tears that were not ready to be shed.

It was utterly appalling and awful, horrendous and harrowing, it was disconcerting and distressing.

You waited a week before you tried again, before you typed up the name that you had long ago memorized and tied to images and pictures memories that may or may not ever happened, of an angel with a musical voice, sad and tired.

'He still has good in him.'

It rang through your ears and you didn't know what she meant.

You didn't know who she was talking to.

You didn't know who she was talking about.

Or maybe you did but you didn't want to.

Your eyes scanned over the empty page.

On the screen of your computer flashed the words 'Entry Not Found.'


End file.
